Five Times Clint Met Natasha's Exes
by Klyntaliah
Summary: (&1 Time She Met His.) Turns out for a secret agent/assassin/Red Room graduate, Natasha knows an awful lot of people. Clintasha, T for some language.


I finally joined the annual Clintasha promptathon! (I've been living under a rock for the past several years.) The prompt for this fic was "Turns out for a secret agent/assassin/Red Room graduate, Natasha knows an awful lot of people (5 times Clint met Natasha's exes and one time...dealer's choice)" from meatball42. Of course I had to bring in Daredevil and Spider-Woman because comics references, but all the other exes are my own inventions. Enjoy!

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xxxxx

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1.

"Oh, shit."

She grimaces through the narrow, dingy window at the man's broad back as he addresses his henchmen. So he works for HYDRA now. Not surprising, really—he always did have that streak of pure, unadulterated evil in him.

"Something wrong?" Clint asks beside her.

They're crouched in the dust outside the HYDRA base, taking a moment to assess the situation before engaging (a practice they're trying to make a habit of. 'Shoot-first-ask-questions-after' usually works, but it's gotten them into trouble a few times). It's chilly and dark out, and the room inside is golden with lamplight, giving them a good vantage point with minimal risk of being seen. Giving her a clear view of Moskalenko's face when he swaggered through the door.

"Human turd with his back to us," she says. "I know him."

"Rapunzel-guy?"

"No, the other one. The one who looks like he microwaves kittens in his free time."

There's a pause as Clint examines him.

"Know him how?"

"His name's Pyotr Moskalenko." She hesitates, then adds, "We kinda used to date."

She feels Clint glance at her through the dark.

"Well. If you could call it dating," she continues. "We screwed sometimes. He didn't hate me; I refrained from killing him. When he was in a really good mood, he'd sometimes let me clean his SMG. Sweet guy."

Clint pauses. "So… I take it this isn't going to be a problem," he says, and she likes that he checked, even though she's been bitching about Moskalenko and he's clearly a hostile. She knows if there was even a small part of her that wanted to spare him, Clint would do it.

But she scoffs and gets to her feet. "He wishes."

Clint stands and follows her to the door, and they draw their weapons in preparation.

"Come on," she says. "I'll introduce you."

And before she kicks the door in, before she gets to relish the surprise on her ex-boyfriend's face, before the room explodes with the steady drill of bullets and with hazy gunsmoke, she catches Clint's laugh.

2.

"Some guy at the bar is staring at you."

There's something nice, Natasha thinks abstractedly, about seeing Clint in something other than his uniform, even if it's just a t-shirt. Maybe it's the way the blue cotton brings out the blue in his eyes. Maybe it's the way his chest and arms strain against the thin material.

She takes a gulp of her G&T.

"Do you wanna try this?" she offers. "It's pretty good."

Clint's brow is wrinkled as he gazes across the room.

"Did you not hear what I said? There's this guy over at the bar who's just staring at you."

She arches an eyebrow at him across the table.

"Is this your first time in a pub? Men will stare at anything that pisses sitting down," she says dryly. "Hell, that's true _everywhere."_

"No, not _that_ kind of stare," he argues. "He's just… watching you. He's frowning. Now he's pointing you out to a couple of crooks in leather… I think he knows you."

Natasha stiffens, setting down her glass.

"Wait. Huge, buff guy, like an Asgardian without the good looks? Bald, tattoos? Looks like he could be in a mafia?"

"Check. And currently on his way over."

"Crap." She turns to look as Jed Tucker approaches, flanked by Marley and Wayne.

"Natasha," Tucker grunts. "What're ya doin' here?"

"Tucker," she greets coldly. Her gaze sweeps the other two. "Marley, Wayne. Still hanging around this loser?"

Tucker steps closer. "C'mon baby girl, don't be like that."

She tenses, and considers kicking his ass just for the sake of that pet name.

She restrains herself and turns away, picking up her glass.

"Get lost, Tucker."

"Natasha, baby." He leans down, one hand on the table, the other on the back of her chair, talking right into her ear. She goes rigid, glowering at the wall behind Clint.

"Nothin's been the same since ya left," he croons. "I wantcha back. Ya know, I still got your wheels in my garage, if ya come down to my place… we could go for a ride."

In her peripheral vision, she sees Clint shift in his seat. She squints at Tucker from the corner of her eye.

"Get the hell out of my face."

She's pleased to find that she scares him enough that he obeys instantly, straightening and taking a step back. But he's pissed now, and he turns his angry gaze on Clint.

" _This_ guy? Really?" he growls, and she freezes, rage climbing up her throat.

"Ya traded me in for this _charity case?"_ he says, and she's on her feet, seizing his wrist and throwing him facedown onto a nearby table, twisting his arm behind his back. Exclamations of surprise erupt all around, and a glass shatters on the floor in shock.

"Listen very closely," she says in a low voice, as he whimpers and squirms under her. "When I let go of you, you are going to stand up, walk out that door, and not come back. Now if for whatever reason you _don't,_ I'll do to you exactly what I did to Casey in Sacramento." She tilts her head. "You remember Sacramento, I'm sure."

He nods rapidly.

"We wouldn't want to have to clean up all that blood, now would we?"

He shakes his head.

"Good." She releases his arm and he gasps in relief. "Now scram."

He stands and scrambles toward the door without a backwards glance, Marley and Wayne close behind.

She turns back to Clint, and he's watching her, looking impressed.

(And maybe a little turned on?)

"When were you in a biker gang?"

3.

"Hey, isn't that that actor guy?"

Natasha, who has been listening to his on-and-off rambling for nearly half an now, doesn't look up from the Vermeer she is studying. It was she who insisted they visit the Mauritshuis museum before leaving Netherlands, even though she figured he wouldn't be as interested in the artwork as she. He has confirmed this theory by voicing every random thought that has popped into his head since they arrived.

"That's gotta be him," he continues. "You know, that Italian guy who was in, uh… what was the name of it? Oh, _Rhea Silvia._ Martini? No, Rotini…"

She looks up, suddenly attentive. "Hold on. Not _Rossini?"_

He snaps his fingers. " _Rossini,_ that's it. Emilio Rossini."

She looks around wildly and, sure enough, there is Rossini, examining the Vermeers just yards away.

"Should we, I don't know, ask for an autograph or something?"

"No, let's go look at the Rembrandts," she says hastily, but too late—Rossini has already spotted her and is striding over.

" _Natalia,"_ he says, and he seizes her hand and kisses her soundly on the knuckles. Clint makes an astonished noise in his throat.

"Why did you stop returning my calls?" Rossini demands, massaging her hand. "Are you determined to break my heart?"

For the first time since they arrived, Clint has gone utterly silent. Natasha merely rolls her eyes and pulls her hand out of his.

"I told you," she says impatiently. "It's over. I'm not changing my mind."

A frown creases his forehead. "But why?" he asks petulantly. "Didn't I give you everything a woman could desire and more? _The most expensive gowns and jewels and perfumes,"_ he continues in Italian. " _The best seats at the most gorgeous theaters in Italy, the_ Teatro Quirino, _the_ Teatro Lirico, _to see beautiful plays and operas and ballets._ Things no other man could give you, even if he wished to," he adds in English, with a pointed glance at Clint.

Natasha stiffens, frowning.

"We're done here, Rossini," she says tightly. "Goodbye." She turns to leave, but Rossini grasps her forearm.

"Natalia, please," he begs, even as she rips her arm away. "You are so cold! No matter how much I give you, it is never enough, you are never satisfied; you drive me crazy! What do you want from me?—Just name it and it's yours. Do you want—?"

"Listen, buddy," Clint cuts in harshly. "The lady said no.—C'mon, let's go." He places a warm hand on her back and steers her firmly toward the Rembrandt room.

Natasha glances back to see Rossini watching her with a pained expression on his face. She looks up at Clint, who is glaring straight ahead, and says, "You didn't have to do that." (She doesn't want him to think she couldn't have gotten rid of Rossini on her own; she has, multiple times.)

"Yeah, well," Clint grunts. "I did it."

He doesn't speak again until they reach the Rembrandt room, when he mutters, "Y'know, _Rhea Silvia_ was a shit movie."

4.

"The weirdest thing just happened."

Natasha takes the paper bag from him and glances in, making sure he got her order right. "Oh?"

He slides into the seat across from her. They're sitting out on the patio of a local diner; the weather is nice, so they decided to eat lunch outdoors.

"I was standing in line to order," he says, "and this blind guy walked past me. All the sudden he stopped, turned around, looked right at me—well, not _looked,_ but you know—and he said to me… 'tell Natasha I said hi.'" Clint scrunches his brows at her, puzzled.

She smiles, pulling her sandwich out of the bag. "Is he still here?"

"No, he went out the back door," Clint says, watching her. "Who is he?"

"His name's Matt Murdock," she says, taking a bite.

Clint gets to the point. "How the hell did he know you were with me? Or that I even know you?"

She hesitates, wondering if it's possible to phrase this in a way that won't sound weird.

Probably not.

"He… could smell me on you," she says finally.

Clint blinks at her, and she tries to figure out when her scent could have transferred to him. Oh, right—he was teasing her on the way over, and she shoved her shoulder against him in retaliation. Even that brief contact would be enough for Matt.

"Okay," Clint says at last. "So how do you know him?" He takes a bite of his sandwich.

She pauses. "We dated a while back."

Clint raises his eyebrows. "Huh," he says. He adds, almost to himself, "Sucks for him."

Natasha frowns. She must have heard him wrong. "What?"

He looks up, and his eyes go wide. "No! God, Nat, I didn't—I just meant, you know, it sucks because he's blind," he says hastily.

She squints at him, disbelieving. "If that's what you meant, your timing was a little off."

"Nat, Jesus, I'm not—" He sets his food aside, looking uncomfortable. "I just meant," he says again, "that it would suck to—I mean, for someone to date you, and be blind. 'Cause then they wouldn't know how—" He breaks off suddenly and drops his head, his face flushing slightly. "How you look," he finishes softly.

She's still not sure what he's getting at.

"Does that really matter?" she challenges. "Would it have made a difference if he knew how I looked?"

"No," he mutters without looking up.

"Then what's your point?"

He sighs, looking agitated, and drags a hand through his hair.

"My point," he says slowly, "is just that… he was missing out, okay? By not being able to see you, I mean." He still won't meet her gaze. "That's all," he mumbles, and suddenly his implication hits, and warmth floods through her.

"Oh," she murmurs, strangely self-conscious. She studies her hands, unsure what else to say, and he seems equally at a loss, so at last she changes the subject.

"It's nice to have a break from work, isn't it?" she says briskly, and he looks up, his face relaxing, and they move onto other topics, ready to pretend the last conversation never happened.

But it did happen, and she doesn't forget.

5.

"I didn't know you read spy novels," he says, right behind her.

She tips her head on its side and runs her finger across the spines of the thick books.

"I read spy novels," she says. "I'll read Furst. Steinhauer. They can be interesting."

"But?" he prompts, a smile in his voice.

She smirks and turns to face him, and he's closer than she realized, one hand resting on the bookshelf behind her. Something stirs in her stomach as he grins at her, his blue-gray eyes brilliant even in the dim light.

She lifts an eyebrow. "But… I mainly read them to criticize them."

He crows a triumphant "Aha!" and she impulsively places her fingers over his lips. He stills, his eyes sparkling mischievously at her.

"Bad boy," she whispers, tilting her head at him. "We're in a library. Keep your voice down."

He raises his eyebrows, a roguish twinkle in his eye. "Or you'll what?" he asks, the challenge warm on her fingertips.

"Nat?" A familiar voice speaks nearby, and she turns in surprise, her hand falling away from Clint's mouth as he quickly steps back. Devon is standing just at the end of the aisle, and he smiles at her, and she wants to tell him to leave because she's not sure what was happening between her and Clint but she doesn't want it to end there.

"Hey," she says instead.

"Hey yourself." Devon half-glances at Clint, then moves forward and kisses her on the cheek.

"How are you?" he asks.

"I'm alright."

"You look good."

"You, too," she says automatically.

Devon glances at Clint again.

"Oh," she says quickly. "This is my, um, my partner, Clint Barton. Clint, this is Devon Cole."

She's never seen them in the same room together, so when they shake hands, realization hits.

Devon looks like Clint.

Their faces are different, but their eyes are the same color, and Devon's hair, while darker, sticks up in front like Clint's. Even their body types are similar.

She runs through some quick mental math. She started dating Devon a year or so after she and Clint became partners. Did she subconsciously start dating someone who looked like Clint?

And if so, why?

"So how do you know Tasha?" Clint is asking. His voice sounds a bit strained.

"Well," Devon says. "She's my ex-girlfriend."

"Hm," Clint says, in the same stiff tone. "Don't remember her talking about you."

(An odd remark, she thinks, since she doesn't really talk to him about _any_ of her exes.)

Devon looks slightly crestfallen. "Well," he says again. "We didn't date for very long."

It's true—she ended the relationship only a couple weeks after its beginning. She liked Devon, but she felt that there was something missing with him, and it frustrated her, even though she didn't know what it was.

 _Could it have been the fact that he wasn't Clint?_

Devon clears his throat and takes a step back.

"Well," he says. "I just wanted to say hi. It was nice talking to you."

"Yeah," she says vaguely.

"I hope I run into you again," he says, and he's gone.

"Seems like a nice guy," Clint grunts after a moment.

She nods, staring at the floor. For some reason, she can't quite look at him; she's not yet sure what she's feeling, or what her revelation means, but she needs a moment to sort it all out.

"Did he end it?" Clint asks suddenly.

It takes her a minute to process what he's asking.

"No," she says. "I ended it."

She hears him exhale, almost like he's relieved, but she's too distracted to figure out why. She's starting to get a feeling like she's been missing something important, something obvious, like it's been staring her in the face all along and she never even noticed…

"What for? He was secretly a jerk?"

Again, it takes a moment to shift her attention to the question. When she does, she frowns, wondering why he's still thinking about Devon. There are much more important things to think about.

"No," she says finally. "He's, um… he's nice. I don't know why I ended it."

But she's starting to have a suspicion, and it would explain why she and Devon didn't work out, why none of her relationships have seemed to work out, ever since she met…

"Look, I'm gonna go," Clint says abruptly. He sounds annoyed, and she doesn't know why. "I'll see you later okay?"

And he walks away, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

+1.

"You know, I never understood why Obi-Wan didn't just _tell_ Luke that Vader was his father," she says.

They're sitting on the couch, watching _A New Hope,_ and at some point, his arm has sneaked around her shoulders so she's leaning into his warm side.

He hums thoughtfully. "Don't they say he… I don't know, wasn't ready to learn the truth or something?"

"Yeah, whatever the hell that means," she scoffs. "If they'd just told him up front, he'd've had more time to get used to the idea."

"Yeah, but then they couldn't've had the big reveal in _Empire Strikes Back."_

She rolls her eyes. "'Cause it's _all about_ that big reveal."

"Well of _course,"_ he says, laughing.

She smirks and glances at him, and finds him looking at her, his bluish eyes crinkling at the corners as he chuckles. When their eyes meet, he goes quiet, searching her face, still with a soft smile in his eyes. Then his arm shifts from behind her, and she stills as he carefully brushes a lock of hair behind her ear.

She holds her breath as his hand lingers on the side of her face, his gaze growing steady and serious. His thumb lightly skims her lower lip, and her pulse stutters.

The doorbell rings, and they both flinch as he snatches his hand back. He looks away, rapidly ruffling a hand through his hair.

"I, uh… I better get that," he mutters without looking at her, and he stands and heads into the kitchen.

She watches, feeling a mix of disappointment and frustration, as he opens the door and appears to be having a conversation with someone outside. She pauses the movie, and distinctly hears a woman's voice. Suddenly tense, she gets up and moves into the kitchen.

"…and so while I was packing everything up," the woman is saying, her voice smooth and sophisticated, "I found some of your stuff. I guess you must've left at my place a long time ago. Here."

Natasha edges closer, and sees the woman outside handing Clint a cardboard box. She's tall and glamorous, with long, glossy black hair and curved red lips.

Something icy-cold creeps through her, and she can't move.

"Thanks, Jess," Clint says, tucking the box under his arm.

'Jess' smiles, studying his face.

"Look, Clint," she says. "My new place is in Jersey. It's not too far, but I probably won't be seeing you again for a while, so… I guess this is goodbye."

Clint nods slowly.

"Okay," he says. "Then… 'bye, I guess."

Jess steps forward, and then she's pressing a kiss to his cheek, and the icy-cold feeling is gone, replaced by something vicious and feral growling in her chest.

"Goodbye, Clint," Jess says. And she is gone.

Clint closes the door and turns around. He sees Natasha and smiles.

"It was just my ex-girlfriend," he explains, starting toward the table.

Natasha watches him, the vicious feeling still twisting in her chest.

"What did _she_ want?" she asks tightly.

He shrugs his shoulders. "Nothing, really. Just dropping off some stuff." He slides the box onto the table and straightens.

"Anyway," he says cheerfully. "Let's keep watching _Star Wars._ We've almost got to Lando."

"No," Natasha says suddenly.

He stops and blinks at her in confusion. "Huh?"

She sees Jess kissing him again, and she scowls. "I'm gonna go home now."

He stares at her, his brow furrowed.

"Okay…" he says slowly. "Why?"

"I just am," she mutters, brushing past him to the door, and she can't explain it, but she feels irritated and miserable, and she just wants to leave.

"Can you at least stay till the movie's done?" he asks hesitantly, as she yanks on her shoes.

She shakes her head, not looking at him, then straightens and turns to leave.

"Nat," he says softly, and something in his tone makes her pause with her hand on the doorknob.

She turns, and he's still by the table, frowning at the floor, his hands clenching and unclenching in agitation.

"Just…" He sighs and rubs at his face. "Is this because Jess came over?" he asks, the words tumbling out in a rush.

She glares silently at him.

"Or is it because," he continues quietly, "of, um… I mean—because of… what was happening… right _before_ Jess came over?"

Natasha blinks in surprise. She watches as he shifts from foot to foot, shamefacedly slipping his hands into his pockets. He knows she's upset. And his immediate assumption is that it's his fault.

"Look, if I…" he murmurs. "If I made you feel… I mean, if that was—I mean, I just, I'm really, really—"

"Shut up," she orders, and he looks up uncertainly as she stalks toward him.

She's ended quite enough relationships, she thinks, as she pulls him down for a kiss. She's hurt far too many people by walking away.

Maybe, she thinks blissfully, as he tangles his hands in her hair, pressing her desperately closer. Maybe, for once… it's time she stayed.


End file.
